


Dinosaur Bones

by Benny_IsA_Dog



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:28:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27704839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Benny_IsA_Dog/pseuds/Benny_IsA_Dog
Summary: Tom walked towards the cliffs. The sand was uneven from throngs of footprints that hadn’t been cleared yet by the tide, and several times he lost his footing from a poorly placed step. But the beach was empty--no one was there to see him stumble and kick sand on his jeans and into his socks. No one was there to ask him if he was drunk, or where he was going, or what had happened an hour, a month, or three years ago.------After the events of series 3, Tom Miller struggles with his family's past and how he fits into it.
Relationships: Alec Hardy & Tom Miller, Ellie Miller & Tom Miller (Broadchurch)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	Dinosaur Bones

**Author's Note:**

> Heavy references to the murder and sexual assault that occur in canon.
> 
> I'm not British, so please excuse any terminology flubs. Also, I don't actually know how police procedure works, so I'm guessing, here.

Tom was in the front room, watching the telly. Granddad had taken Fred to the park over an hour ago, to keep him busy until dinner, but Tom had opted to stay home. He’d opted to stay home a lot in the last few days, since Michael had been arrested. The arrest was all anyone talked about.

On the telly, a dumb sitcom was playing-- the sort of thing he endured only when all other options had been exhausted. The show had cut for its final commercial break when Mum appeared, leaning against the doorframe. She stared at the telly, worrying her lip. Her eyes focused somewhere behind the ad for bathtub cleaner flashing across the screen. 

  
"Tom,” said Mum, after a few minutes, “the police want to ask you about Michael.”

It was strange, the way she asked it. Mum was one of the lead detectives on Michael’s case--she  _ was  _ the police. Tom straightened where he sat on the couch. Her expression had flattened into the neutral mask she wore when she was working. 

“What do you want to know about?” asked Tom. He didn’t need to ask, though. They wanted to know if he had noticed Michael had done something--if he had been able to tell that someone he’d been so close to had done something terrible. 

A commercial for a store the next town over played tinny, sickly upbeat music. Mum smiled in a way meant to be reassuring, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“Just about how he was acting before the rape, and after.” she said

Tom shifted. Tom had already told her what little he knew, but that wasn’t how this worked. He’d known this was coming, so why did his stomach feel so sour? “Right.”

"It'll need to be at the station.” 

“Oh.” 

The jingle faded as the commercial finished, and there was a beat of silence, an instant too long, before the next started--a car dealership in Poole. For some reason, Tom had imagined someone would come to the house. The last time Tom had been interviewed at the station had been three years ago. He'd talked about Danny and who might’ve killed him, while Dad had sat beside him, listening. 

“Is that alright?" asked Mum. 

"Yeah, I guess," said Tom, shrugging. It wasn't alright. Not really. 

“Someone will have to go with you,” said Mum, shifting her weight. “Someone besides me.”

Someone would have to fill the role Dad should be filling. Tom looked at the telly, so he wouldn't have to keep looking at Mum. 

“I don't know who you might want to have there,” said Mum, her words rushed, “Maybe your Granddad?" 

Tom grimaced. He couldn’t talk about Michael in front of Granddad. But was there  _ anyone  _ he could do that with? After Michael’s arrest, Tom had texted Olly. It was one of the first things he’d done. 

"Can it be Olly?" he asked. 

Mum frowned. "He can't come all the way from London, Tom.”

"I know, but he already knows about everything with Michael. I, um...I told him.”

“Oh?" said Mum, blinking in surprise."I didn't know you two spoke with each other that much." 

"Yeah."

"Oh." Mum nodded mechanically. "All right. I’ll see if he can ask off work.”

The commercial break ended, and the sitcom came back on. Tom looked down at his hands, then back at Mum. 

“I don’t know anything about what Michael did, you know,” he said, “I told you, he didn’t tell me about… about that.”

Mum flashed an insubstantial smile. “I know, love.” 

For a few minutes, they were silent, both pretending to watch the final moments of the show. Was she thinking about Dad? She had to be. But she wouldn’t say anything--they never did. They never talked about Dad.

Tom wanted her to say something.

The front door opened, and Fred burst through, with Granddad in tow. Mum turned away as Fred started chattering loudly about the park, leaving Tom alone with the telly.

Xxx

  
  


A week later, Olly came by train and stayed overnight with Aunt Lucy. All of them--Tom, Mum, Fred, and Granddad--went to her house for dinner to see him. He’d be going right back to London as soon as the interview was over. The next day, Tom and Olly met Mum inside the police station, in front of the reception desk.

“All right, loves?” she asked as they came in. 

“Sure,” said Olly, beaming at her like he was having a terrific time. “We grabbed lunch, now we’re ready to go.”

They both looked at Tom. 

“Uh, yeah,” he said. Before he could come up with something else to say, the officer working the desk leaned over to get their attention. 

"D.I. Hardy will be right down,” she said. 

Mum nodded, then she put her hand on Tom’s shoulder. “All right. I’ll be just out here on the boardwalk.” 

"Yeah, I know," said Tom. They'd already talked through what to expect. It would be just like it was three years ago.

"Shouldn't take too long," said Olly. He grinned at Tom, raising his eyebrows,"Hardy doesn't like me-- this will be very efficient." 

Mum flashed a half-hearted smile. 

“Oh, we’ll be fine,” said Olly, more soberly, “Right, Tom?”

Tom hesitated. “Yeah, I guess so.” 

Mum's gaze squared on him, and she straightened, putting both hands on his shoulders. “Olly's right, it’ll be fine, love.” 

The door behind Tom opened, and he pulled himself from her hands. He turned to see DI Hardy in the doorway, holding the door ajar. 

Mum stepped away, smiling again. “There you are!” She turned to Tom and Olly. “All right, I'll see you both in a bit. Love you."

Tom looked at his shoes. "Yeah.”

“All yours,” she said to Hardy, cheerily. She made a little wave as she left out the front door.

As Tom followed Olly and Hardy into the station proper, he glanced over his shoulder out the front windows. Mum had stopped on the front steps, staring out to the shoreline, with the last bit of her smile faded and her eyebrows drawn together.

  
  


Xxx

Tom hadn't seen much of Detective Inspector Hardy since the investigation into Danny's death, when Hardy and Mum were together the center of all of Broadchurch’s attention. After Dad’s trial, Hardy had abruptly left town, only to reappear years later, reinserting himself right back where he’d been before. Since then, Tom had only seen him briefly, and from a distance, as he came or went with Mum for work. He’d be driving the car that pulled into the driveway to pick up Mum, or he’d be the voice on the other side of her phone call. Then, when the rape had been annouced, the interest of the entire area had again focused on Hardy and Mum. 

Now, Hardy ushered Tom and Olly to the elevator, then to a desk where he gave them a large packet of paperwork for them to sign and co-sign. He was mostly quiet, speaking only to give them polite, but short, instructions. He still towered over Tom, even though Tom was now taller than Mum by several inches. When Tom handed back his forms, Hardy added it to a thick folder whose contents he kept subtly turned away. 

Tom recognized the interview room before Hardy steered them into it-- it was the same room they’d used three years ago, the ones they used for kids, set aside from the rest of the CID. There were three chairs, facing each other, with a table covered with brightly colored toys and picture books sequestered in the corner. A camcorder sat on a tripod, set to one side in an ineffective attempt to make it unobtrusive. 

"Over there, please, Tom," said Hardy, gesturing to the chair the camera was focused on.

Carefully, Tom sat, and Olly settled in the chair beside him. Hardy took the chair opposite, glancing through sheets on a clipboard, right where he'd been last time, when he'd demanded to know if Tom had killed Danny. 

Involuntarily, Tom looked away from Hardy, directly into the camera, then quickly looked down at the floor instead. Olly looked up. 

“Alright, mate?” he asked quietly, leaning over.

“Yeah,” said Tom, quickly, “I’m fine.” 

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." Olly smiled weakly. "If you're sure, then."

Hardy was watching Tom. Tom didn’t know what he was looking for. After a moment, Hardy put his finger over the camera’s “record” button, but he didn’t press it. 

"Are you ready, Tom?" he asked. The question was gentle, yielding, in a way he'd never heard Hardy speak before.

Tom swallowed. "Um, yeah."

Hardy pressed a button near the camera display, and a red light blinked on above the lens. 

“What is your name and address?” he asked. 

“Um.” Tom swallowed. “Thomas Miller, Number 7 Hazel Lane.” 

“And how old are you?” 

“Fifteen.” 

“And how do you know Michael Lucas?” 

“We were mates.” Tom shrugged. “We had classes together.” 

“How long have you known him for?” 

“Since kindergarten--we’re in the same year. We weren’t really mates, though, until maybe a year or two ago.” 

Hardy was watching Tom with an unnerving, unwavering gaze. 

“What do you two do together?” he asked.

“You know, we just hung out, mostly.” 

Hardy raised his eyebrows. “Is that it?” 

Tom didn’t have the nerve to glare back at him. 

“Well, no,” he said tightly, “You already know about the porn.” 

Tom glanced quickly at Olly, but he didn’t look disgusted or embarrassed. He was only looking back at Tom, expression stoic but kind. Olly had called Tom once the news of his suspension from school had crept through the family tree. 

“I want to hear it from you," said Hardy.

Tom shifted uncomfortably, not looking at either Hardy or the camera. “It was just videos-- nothing weird, or--I don’t know-- _ violent _ or anything. And people wanted to see it, so we gave it to them.” 

“What did Michael think of it?” 

Michael had shown him the first videos with an excited eagerness, like he was sharing some thrilling secret, and Tom had been just as excited to accept it. 

“I don’t know,” said Tom, “He was interested in it, I guess. He wanted to show me when he first got it.”

Hardy’s expression didn’t change. “Did you know where he got the porn?” 

“He told me it was from his dad's computer."

Hardy paused. “We’ve learned that most of that content was given to him by a man named Leo Humphries. Do you know who that is?”

“Yeah, that's the guy you and my mum arrested. Michael knew him from football.” 

“What was their relationship like?” 

“They started hanging out a few months ago. Michael liked him. He thought he was cool." Tom wetted his lips. A few months ago, Michael had started telling stories of his cool new friend, one that spouted authoritative life advice. Michael spent more and more time with Leo, and, eventually, Tom rarely saw Michael outside of school. Tom had pressed his company on him relentlessly, unless Michael slid further away into this mysterious new friendship until he didn’t need Tom anymore.

“Did you ever meet Leo Humphries?” asked Hardy.

Tom shook his head. “No, I never talked to him.” 

Michael hadn’t shared that part of his life with Tom. When he’d shown him the porn, it was like being let into a secret. 

“Did Michael tell you what he and Humphries did together?” 

“Um, no. Just a few things. Like when Leo got him alcohol.” 

“Did Michael start acting differently after Saturday the 20th?” 

Tom looked away. Olly crossed his arms, stiffly. 

Michael had been distant. Quiet. No more stories about Leo, no more new videos. 

“He might’ve been a little quieter than usual,” said Tom. “He said his step dad was being an asshole, but I didn’t notice anything else.”

“What about after the sexual attack was announced to the press?” 

“Not really, no,” he said. 

Hardy leaned forward, eyebrows knitted. “Are you sure, Tom ?” 

Tom hadn’t really been able to tell, had he? He hadn’t been able to tell Michael’s new friend was bad for him. And he hadn’t been able to tell when Michael had done something terrible. Tom wished he had. It was strange, that something like that didn’t brand a person in a way that everyone around them could see what they’d done. He hadn’t been able to tell what Dad had done, either. He’d trusted Dad, too. 

Hardy was still watching him, with the same questioning look, and Tom was 11 again, sitting in this room, answering questions about Danny, as Dad cracked to pieces beside him. He wanted to leave. 

“That’s it, really,” said Tom, quickly. “I would’ve told someone-- I would’ve told my mum--if I did.” 

Hardy paused, eyebrows raised. Then his expression changed, like the energy had been let out of it, and he leaned back in his seat again. 

“Thank you, Tom,” he said. It was with that softness again. That bizarre, calculated softness that he had no right to use. "I’m sure you would have.” 

Xxx

Hardy asked other, more mundane questions--if Tom had seen Michael on this day or that, corroborations of Michael’s movement, about his general character. The interview finished dully, and Hardy left them at the station’s elevator. 

Tom and Olly stopped on the front steps. Olly pulled out his phone to text Mum. He grimaced.

"That was… nasty stuff," he said, hesitantly, like the words were inadequate. He looked tired. "I'm sorry you've gotten all caught up in this. You doing alright?" 

"Yeah, fine," said Tom. He wasn't the one going to prison, or the person that was hurt. The interview was over--that meant he was done with the rape and with Michael, and he could forget about the whole thing in a few weeks like the rest of the town. He  _ was _ fine.

Olly nodded, the looked down at his phone again, pulling up his calendar. He’d have to catch the train, soon. 

“You know,” said Tom, “you could stay longer.”

Olly looked up, frowning. 

“You could stay another night--you don’t have to go right away,” said Tom. 

Olly’s face fell. “Oh, Tom--”

Tom’s words rushed out. "It's just I barely saw you today and you haven't been down since Easter. You don’t have to leave right now--we could watch the match on telly, at our place." 

He shook his head, brows furrowed. “I’m sorry, mate." He really did look sorry. "I have to be back at the office in the morning.” 

“Nevermind--sorry,” said Tom, quickly. Olly had already taken a whole day of work off to be here, of course he had to go back.

“I’m sorry, mate, I wish I could stay longer.” 

“It’s okay. I get it.” 

Olly wrapped Tom’s shoulders in a side hug. “I promise, I’ll come back and visit again, soon. And you can always text me if you need anything, okay?” He half-smiled and jostled Tom’s shoulder playfully. “ _ Anything, _ all right?” 

“Okay,” said Tom. He tried to smile back. 

Tom let Olly keep his hand on his shoulder until they spotted Mum walking up the boardwalk. They dropped off him at the train station on the way home. Olly would be back to his new life in London by the end of the day.

Xxx

When Tom and Mum got home, it was nearing only half four in the afternoon, and Fred and Granddad were still out. Tom went to the dining room and dropped his school bag on the table. Mum followed him, setting her bag beside his.

"How did the interview go?" she asked. 

“Fine,” he lied, “I told you that.” 

She shrugged and crossed her arms, leaning against the table. "I wanted to ask you without Olly here." 

Tom shrugged. “I dunno. It didn’t bother me.”

Mum frowned. "People have all kinds of reactions, so it's alright if you--"

“Don’t you have the video of it? Can’t you just watch that if you want to know how it went?” 

Mum raised her eyebrows. "Fine, then," she said sarcastically, "I suppose I can." 

Tom sat heavily on one of the dining chairs. Mum shuffled through the pile of unsorted mail that had been on the table for days. 

“It was nice seeing Olly, if only for a bit,” she said, after a moment. “That new job must be keeping him busy.” She flashed a crooked smile at him. “Maggie Radcliffe says he ran off to write tabloid drivel, but I bet Olly is loving that sort of thing. London’s probably finally ‘exciting’ enough for him.” 

“It’s better than here.” 

Mum tilted her head in concession.“Well, it’s different.” 

“No--he had the right idea getting out of Broadchurch,” said Tom.“It's boring. There’s nothing to do here.”

Everything in Broadchurch centered around boats or going somewhere else that  _ did _ have something to do. Only the dullest people lived here--people that would never think to leave the place they were born. Everyone knew everyone else. It was claustrophobic. Everyone on the street knew who you were, who your parents were, and whatever trouble you'd been in. 

Mum sighed sharply in irritation. “Sorry, this is where we are.”

“I wish we lived in London."

“Well,” she said, raising her hand in a dismissive imitation of a shrug, “you can run off to London when you go to uni in a few years.” 

A knot formed in Tom’s stomach. It was wrong, the way she said that. Mum sighed and rubbed her face. Her eyelids were sagging, and she slouched against the table. 

“I’m going to have to go back to the station for a few hours tonight," she said.

“What, again? Why?” asked Tom. “The big case is over.”

“Yeah, but there’s still a small mountain of paperwork left to document it all. “ 

"Can't someone else do it?" 

"No, it's got to be me."

“God, you’re always gone,” Tom said, huffing out the words. 

Mum rolled her eyes. “You’re starting to sound like your Granddad.” 

Tom glared. “Well, he’s right--you’re never around.”

She paused, turning to face him fully with eyebrows knitted together. After a moment, her face collapsed back into exhaustion, and she closed her eyes. “Tom, I can’t have this conversation right now.” 

She was always off responding to calls and rushing to fix problems. Other people’s problems. She was never interested in what was happening here at home--or with Tom. 

“You know,” he said sharply, “it took you nearly a  _ week _ to notice I took my phone back.”

She opened her eyes, brows furrowed. “What?”

“It had been nearly a week when you smashed it, and you didn’t know.”

“Tom--” 

“You don’t even know what goes on in your own house!”

“That’s enough!” she snapped. He flinched as she seized her purse and thrust the strap onto her shoulder. “I have to go back to the station, and you’re going to have to---to just  _ deal  _ with it.”

She stormed out. The sound of the front door slamming shut and rattling in its frame came from the hall. Tom slammed his hand on the table and groaned, then let the groan turn into a yell. Then, he grabbed his school bag and charged up the stairs, so he’d already be in his room when Granddad and Fred came home.

Xxx

Tom came back downstairs later that evening to share a packaged lasagna from the freezer with Granddad and Fred in a familiar routine. Afterwards, Granddad retreated to his evening talk shows, and Tom retreated back to his room. He thumbed through some of the school work he’d missed that day, but more than once he found himself stuck, rereading the same paragraph over and over. Eventually, he heard Granddad put Fred to bed, and, later, the telly went silent as Granddad went to sleep, too. It was past eleven when Mum's car finally pulled into the garage. She hadn't gotten home before ten in weeks. Her bag jangled on the kitchen table, and she trudged heavily up the stairs to her room. Sometimes, if she thought he'd still be awake, she'd knock on Tom's door, stick her head in, and ask him how his day was, and he'd say "fine." She didn't come by tonight.

Tom couldn't go to bed, yet, even as it got closer to midnight, then one AM. He wasn't tired, he was restless, like he was before he took a test or had to stand up in front of the class. He couldn't sleep. Michael was probably in a jail cell somewhere in Poole, sitting up like Tom was. The news had reported that the police were confident in the evidence they’d accumulated for a conviction. But maybe Michael had heard that, too, and had accepted he’d go to prison, and he'd stopped laying awake at night in the uncertainty of what would happen next. 

Tom needed to  _ do  _ something. He opened his phone and searched in his contacts for Olly’s name.  _ Hey, can you talk?  _ he typed. Tom stared at the bright text, thumb hovering over the “send” button. It was late. If Olly was even awake, he’d want to know if there was something wrong.  _ Was _ something wrong?

Tom backspaced until the text bar was empty and closed the messaging app. He shoved the phone into his pocket and got to his feet. He couldn’t stay still. Quietly, he left his room and crept across the landing. Mum’s door was at the end. She was probably asleep by now. He could knock on it, wait for her to open it. His fingers twitched. Or he could slip in, quiet enough to not wake her, and fall asleep in the bed next to her. 

Instead, Tom turned away and went down the stairs. The stairs ended in front of the living room, and Tom paused in the doorway. This was where he’d been, after the interview three years ago. He’d been terrified, sure that someone would come and arrest him for killing Danny, and Hardy himself had come through the front door. But Hardy had just taken a brief look in and moved on. Then everything had fallen to pieces. 

Tom spun away from the living room and went to the kitchen, where the back door opened onto the garden and the field beyond it. The grass in the field waved faintly in the breeze. He needed to get out of that house. 

The cabinet to the left of the stove held the family’s liquor, including a half-full bottle of the whiskey his Granddad always bought. Tom took out his phone and selected a series of names. 

_ Meet up on the beach? I’ve got booze.  _

Xxx

Caleb took his mom’s car and picked up Tom at the end of the street. They met Dave and Patrick up the coast from the main beach, out of sight of anyone that might look out from the houses and stores that came up close to the shoreline. As they’d hoped, no one else was on the beach, the summer tourists long since retreating to beds in their own towns. They spent the next few hours on the beach passing the bottle of whiskey between them, sharing it without urgency and in no particular order, one of them simply reaching for the bottle from whoever had it when they were ready for more. It ended up in Tom’s hands more often than not, and he’d take an extra swallow or two before passing it on. If any of the others noticed what he was doing, they didn’t say anything.

They talked about the job Caleb's aunt and uncle had set up for him, a position in their shop in Cardiff, that would take him out of Broadchurch for the summer. And Dave had started going out with a girl in the year below them. He'd been out on the shoreline paths with her a few times, on the parts that wandered into secluded bays between cliffs.

Granddad would notice the whiskey was gone, and he’d know it was Tom. He’d find it missing tomorrow night, or the night after, when he reached into the alcohol cabinet for his regular glass with the evening news. He’d yell at Tom, and look for the empty bottle in his room, in the trash, in the garden. And when Mom got home, she’d yell, too, and tell him he needed to be better than this, and he’d be in even more trouble than before. Could she figure out he’d shared it with his friends? How long would it take her to find out?

By the time Patrick took the last swing, Tom’s vision twisted and spun lazily along with the waves. He’d never been this drunk before. It was strange, the way he had to work so much harder to stand still.

"Has anyone heard anything about Michael?" asked Patrick as he lodged the bottle in the sand in front of them. 

Everyone was quiet. Tom kept his eyes down, watching the bottle slowly tilt onto its side.

"It's just my dad and his mate were talking about him today," said Patrick quietly, "He said there might be a court case." 

“No,” said Dave, finally “they haven’t released anything else about the rape in the news. No one’s heard anything.” 

Caleb looked at Tom. “Didn’t you get called into the police today? That’s why you weren’t at school, right?” 

Tom hadn’t mentioned the reason he’d been gone to many people, just his teachers. “Where’d you hear that?” 

“Everyone's talking about it," said Caleb, "That’s where you were, though, right?” 

Tom shrugged uncomfortably. “Yeah.” 

Patrick turned to him. “What? Really?”

“Did they ask you questions?” asked Dave, “About Michael?"

Tom shook his head. The movement made the spinning worse, and he groaned. “I’m not supposed to talk about it,” he said, lamely.

“Come on!” said Caleb, shoving Tom’s shoulder lightly, “Your mum was leading the case, you must know about the whole thing!”

Tom stepped out of his reach.

“And didn’t the other bloke, Humphries, give you guys those videos?” 

"I don't really want to talk about it," said Tom 

"Oh come on! Did Michael tell you about it? Did you know?” 

“Jesus, man!” said Tom. He stepped backwards, out of their circle, stumbling in the sand, “I don’t know anything!” 

Caleb's eyes widened, “Wow, mate, sorry--” 

“Just leave it!” 

“Okay, wow,” said Caleb, incredulously, “I just wanted to know.” 

Tom ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t want to talk about it-- it’s just, just….” He looked out over the waves, anywhere but back at the others. 

Patrick took a step toward him. “You alright, mate?” 

Tom waved him off. “No--yeah, I’m fine. I think... I think I’m done for tonight.” 

“He didn’t mean anything by it--right Caleb?"

“No, I’m tired, I just want to head in.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah, I’ll walk home.” 

Tom turned toward the town and trudged up the beach, and the surprised mutterings of the others faded quickly behind him. They would talk about him. Tomorrow at school they'd whisper when they saw him, then they'd ask him if he was okay. 

The sandbar expanded to form the main beach, and Tom followed its inland curve until he met the pavement of the parking lot, empty except for Caleb’s dilapidated hatchback. Beyond, the town was quiet and still. The fastest route home would be along the High Street, and it would be empty this time of night, with all the shop fronts dark. Tom had never been on it when it was empty--even when he'd pretended to be Danny on the night he died, there had been people watching from every window he passed, and his parents and a crowd of people behind had followed behind him. It had felt nothing like the footage the press had released of Danny on his skateboard. Danny had been alone when he'd disappeared at the end of the road.

In front of him rose the famed Broadchurch cliffs, the defining landmark of the Jurassic Coast. They encroached on the sand, cutting the beach down to a small remaining strip where the escarpment toed the water. Next to them and the sea, the town seemed small and unintimidating, and it and everyone in it was insignificant. 

Tom walked towards the cliffs. The sand was uneven from throngs of footprints that hadn’t been cleared yet by the tide, and several times he lost his footing from a poorly placed step and nearly fell over with his compromised sense of balance. But the beach was empty--no one was there to see him stumble and kick sand on his jeans and into his socks. No one was there to ask him if he was drunk, or where he was going, or what had happened an hour, a month, or three years ago.

As he crossed under the looming silhouette of the rocks, Tom could guess where Danny’s body was found, around where the rising tide was lapping now. When the national news had clamored for details of the murder, details of the scene had been published--how and when Dad had laid Danny out, how he’d moved him here, and how he’d tried to make it look like an accident. Mum, then Aunt Lucy and Olly, had tried to keep reports like that away from Tom, but it was easy to find on the internet on his own. Public records had been re-published during the trial, down to schematics of how Dad had held Danny by the neck until the last of the oxygen in his brain had been used up.

It wasn’t scary here, though. Tom had never actually seen Danny's body, and the gentle crash of the waves from up and down the coast blended into a gentle, rocking roaring that had been the background to half of Tom’s memories growing up. The moon was bright tonight, and its reflection was smeared across the water under the horizon. He sat ungainly on the ground, catching himself on the sand with his hand on the way down. 

He and Danny used to play here. Once, when they were five or six, they’d spent hours digging with little plastic shovels, convinced they’d uncover a complete skeleton of a T-rex. They’d excavated a wide and shallow hole, with Dad and Mark looking on from lawn chairs. One of Tom’s earliest memories was of Mum holding his hand as they stood together in the water and faced down a formidable wave that went high past his knees. 

He wrapped his arms around his knees and pulled them to his chest. He listened to the waves coming and going for a long time. 

“All right there?” 

Tom jumped to his feet, turning to where the voice had come, and stumbled to keep his balance. A bright torchlight blinded him, and he brought his hand up to block it. 

“Tom?” 

The light dropped to his feet, out of his eyes. DI Hardy stood several yards away, standing unevenly in the sand. 

“What the  _ bloody hell  _ are you out here for?” asked Hardy, scowling. 

Tom had the ridiculous impulse to run but stayed still. "Nothing." 

" 'Nothing'?" said Hardy, raising his eyebrows, "That's the best you can come up with?"

Tom grimaced. “No!” What the hell was Hardy doing here? “I mean-- I wasn't, I wasn’t doing anything!”

“Have you been drinking?” Hardy stepped toward him. 

Tom backed away, before he could stop himself, and Hardy stopped. Tom’s eyes were stinging, and, he realized with horror, they had been for awhile. He wiped at them with the back of his hand and tried to keep his face tilted away.

The torch twitched up to his face, then down again. Hardy’s scowl dropped into an uninterpretable mask. "What are you doing out here, Tom?" 

Tom said nothing. Hardy swept the torchlight around Tom, lighting the empty sand, the rockfall at the bottom of the cliff, and the edge of the water. He wasn’t in the suit Tom had always seen him in, instead he wore a jumper and a windbreaker that flapped loosely in the breeze. 

Hardy turned back to him.“Where does your mum think you are?"

"Does it matter?" His voice came out thick.

"Not really, no, as I'll be calling her anyway."

“No! Don’t do that!” Tom tipped forward and stumbled to catch himself. If Mum knew he’d been alone on the beach where Dad had left Danny, she’d think… she’d think  _ something  _ \-- Tom didn’t know what, exactly, but he didn’t want her thinking it. “Just… just tell her I was by the harbour.” 

Hardy stared at him, then something in his face changed. “You want me to lie to your mother, but not about you sneaking out and getting shit-faced?" 

Tom glared back at him. What was Hardy doing here, on this beach, in Tom's home? Who did he think he was? He didn't belong in Broadchurch, but he was always the one who got to dig into its insides when it was at its lowest and bring out its worst where everyone could see it. 

Hardy didn’t break his gaze. His eyebrows drew together. "I'm not going to tell her that, Tom," he said, softly.

“Don't, then," Tom spat, "It doesn’t matter.” 

Tom looked out over the water. Hardy had found Tom out, like he found out everyone, and now everything would spiral out of Tom’s control. 

“Are you alright?” asked Hardy. 

Tom didn’t answer. The sand crunched as Hardy shifted behind him.

“Come with me,” said Hardy. Tom looked around, and Hardy gestured the torch back up the beach. 

“Are you going to write a police report?” Tom asked. 

Hardy raised his eyebrows. “Do I need to?” 

Tom scowled again. He was going to get a citation for drinking.

“Come on,” repeated Hardy. 

Tom followed him back to the edge of the tourist beach, saying nothing, then up the hill that sloped up from the beach to the clifftops. Hardy lived in the white house halfway up. It was an iconic piece of the beach’s scenery, so much so that everyone in town knew when Hardy had moved in. The lights were still on in the front windows. 

Hardy opened the front door and waved him in. The door opened into a sitting room. 

“My daughter’s with her mum for the weekend.” Hardy pointed to the couch. “Sit there,” he commanded, then disappeared into the next room. He came back carrying a dining room chair and set it across from the couch. Another interrogation, then. "Sit," Hardy repeated.

Tom dared to sneer at him. "I thought you were going to call my mum."

Hardy sneered back. "First I want to know why you were wandering around the beach drunk at half 3 in the morning." He tilted his head toward the couch, pointedly. " _ Sit down. _ "

Tom turned and, feeling Hardy's gaze tracking him, dropped into the indicated seat.

"Great," said Hardy, sarcastically. He sat in the chair across from Tom, arms crossed. 

Tom kneaded his toe into the rug. It was an unassuming room, normal, like a picture from one of the magazines Aunt Lucy read. It didn't fit with Tom's mental picture of DI Hardy. 

After a moment, Hardy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "What were you doing out there, Tom?"

"What were  _ you  _ doing?" 

Hardy tightened his hands, clenched his jaw. Maybe he would yell at Tom, throw him out, be angry. But he sighed and leaned back in his chair. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. "When it's empty, out there's a good place to go and think. Calms me down.” He snorted without humor. “A bit of a popular place tonight, though, huh? I saw someone keeled over on the beach and thought there might be trouble.” 

Tom glanced at his hands. This felt dangerous, like they'd gone somewhere off-limits. He shouldn’t have asked, and he shouldn't keep asking. But he did anyway.

“You go outside in the middle of the night a lot?” he asked. 

“I don’t sleep well.” 

“Why not?” 

“Lots of reasons.” 

Tom crossed his arms over his stomach. For a few seconds, Hardy watched him, his gaze drifting over him carefully. Finally, Hardy glanced away and ran his hand through his hair. 

"I worry about my daughter, sometimes," he said, "if she likes it here, or how everything's going to work out for her. Parent stuff."

Tom didn't answer.

"Sometimes, I think about cases," said Hardy, quietly, "About the awful things some people can do. Some of them stick with you." 

"Do you think about Danny?"

Hardy met his eyes. He let out a long, measured breath. "Aye. Sometimes."

Tom looked down at his hands again. Hardy was a detective from out of town who'd seen tons of murders and rapes and robberies. Tom hadn't thought he'd think of Danny Latimer and Joe Miller at all. 

"I couldn't sleep, either," said Tom, finally, "So I went out with mates… But they were asking about Michael. They kept asking me what happened. So I left."

Hardy's eyebrows raised slightly.

"What's going to happen to him?" asked Tom.

Hardy shook his head. "I don't know, it depends on what the judge decides. But he's a minor, and he was coerced. He'll likely go to prison, maybe a few months, or maybe a few years." 

Tom nodded. Tom would keep going to school in that time, maybe be off to university. He didn't think Michael would come back to Broadchurch when he was released. His mum would take him somewhere new, if she could, and they'd try to start again. 

"Why'd you come here when you left your friends?" asked Hardy, "Why didn't you go home?"

"I don't know," said Tom. "I didn't want to be there."

"Why not?" 

Tom shrugged, and Hardy watched him with that same measured look.

"I thought about my dad, today, at the police station," said Tom. "Him and Danny.”

Hardy sighed. "I thought maybe you would." 

“What?” 

“It... makes sense. Is that why you came here, instead of going home?” 

"I don't know."

Hardy frowned sadly. "I know what it’s like to want to get away from something."

“I’m not trying to get away from anything."

The sound of the waves hitting the beach drifted through the windows. The tide was rising, and soon it would cover up where Danny had been left

"Why did it have to be my Dad?" he said.

"I don't know," said Hardy, quietly 

"I hate what he did."

Hardy clasped his hands in front of his chin, his mouth twisted.

"And I hate that I still think of him. I hate the way he makes me feel  _ all the time _ \-- I hate that he did this to me. 

"I know."

"I was supposed to be able to trust him. And I trusted Michael. But I can't trust anyone." Tom's eyes were stinging again. 

“Have you talked to your mum about this?" asked Hardy. 

Tom and Mum never talked about Dad. Instead, they'd dance around the subject, like they could pretend his memory wasn't always sitting in the room with them, between them. Like they didn't feel sad or scared or angry about him nearly every day. Like they could convince each other they weren't.

"Mum and I don't talk like that," said Tom.

"She worries about you. She wants to help you."

Mum had removed all signs of Dad from the house. She still winced, just a little, when someone brought him up. Sometimes, in a quiet moment at the end of the day, she looked like she’d collapse in on herself--when she thought Tom and Fred couldn't see her. 

"I don't know if she can," said Tom.

“I think she’s one of the only people who could. You can trust her." 

A tear escaped Tom's eye, and he wiped at it. What would he say to Mum? What did he even want from her? There was no normal left to go back to. But maybe they could stop pretending there was. 

“I hope you’re right,” he said. 

He couldn’t stop the crying, now. They were silent for a few moments.

"I'm going to go call your mum,” said Hardy, finally. “I’m going to tell her what’s going on. Okay?" 

He was actually asking--and waiting for Tom’s answer. Tom took a deep breath. 

“Okay.” 

xxx 

Hardy went to the front porch to make the call, leaving Tom to wipe away the snot and tears with his jacket sleeve. Only the lowest pitches of Hardy's voice carried inside. There were short, sharp words at first, but then the conversation transitioned into softer murmurs. It was a while before Hardy came back, looking exhausted with shoulders slumped.

"I'm taking you home," he said, "Come on." 

The drive was silent, and Tom watched the dark streets of Broadchurch pass by. When the car pulled up to Tom’s house, the front door opened, and Mum stepped out onto the front step. She was wrapped in her dressing gown and held her arms tight around herself. Hardy stopped the car in front of the driveway. He looked at Mum and nodded.

Tom got out of the car, and he and Mum met hallway up the driveway. She wrapped her arms around him, leaning her face into his shoulder as he hugged her back.

"It's going to be alright, love," she said. "I’m so sorry--I promise, it will be."

Tears stung at Tom's eyes again. He leaned his head on her shoulder, and he nodded.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are deeply, extraordinarily appreciated. They're how I know you're out there.
> 
> Gentle feedback welcome.


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